Welcome to Balamanja, Monkey Bay
Unlike some politicians, we deliver what we promise, almost always. Unlike some politicians when we fail to honour a promise, we apologise and give convincing reasons. Unlike some politicians, we do not specialise in lying. So, as we promised we have made it to the Republic of Mangochi, the land of the Yao, Lhomwe, Tonga, and Chewa; and home of the Beni dance and Sikili. Mangochi is probably the most cosmopolitan area in Malawi. Christians live side by side with Christians, Rastas, animists, Nyau, and atheists without trampling on each other’s space and peace. Each one prays to their god freely. Like Karongians, Mangochians believe in more work and less entertainment. They have almost single-handedly developed their district.
We arrived here last Tuesday and decided to camp at Monkey Bay, the home of Bingu wa Mutharika’s University of Marine Biology, the graveyard of Mtendere, Ufulu, Karonga, Nkhwazi and Chauncy Maples, the ships that once upon a time ploughed our entire Lake Malawi. From Monkey the ships regularly sailed and ferried passengers and cargo to Mbenje Island, Chipoka, home of Change Goalkeeper, Nkhotakota, Likoma, Chizumulu, Chinthechi, Nkhata Bay, Mbamba Bay in Tanzania, Usisya, Chilumba, and Kambwe. Since we decided that dictators are bad, our democrats have sold or grounded almost all the ships. In the wisdom of democrats, it is cheaper to ferry goods by road than by sea or lake.
We will not reveal just now where, in Monkey Bay, we are lodged. We visited the once popular Ilala Lodge, but we were told the lodge had been closed. Jean-Philippe, who has since adopted the title of Sheikh, suggested that we go to Chikoko Bay. I politely told him not to joke about presidential security. He laughed and swore that he never knew that Chikoko Bay Lodge was a state residence.
From our undisclosed lodging place, we have already gone to visit the headquarters Nankumba, which also happens to be the home of our acquaintance, Stephano Saipirawachaje. Traditional Authority Nankumba understands why suddenly elephants from Phirilongwe have suddenly become rabid and enemies of the people. We have also visited and met the most loved radio station in Monkey Bay, Dzimwe Community Radio. Jean-Philippe could not believe his eyes, when he saw DJ Louis Jonasi dancing, topless and sweating in his on-air studio as he dished out Malawian rumba and reggae vibes. We also visited Nsumbi, Chigonere, Kankhande, Katuli, and Balamanja villages.
Balamanja is the village where that beautiful bespectacled Zimbabwean poster girl in crimson red, Linda Gasa, was found buried in somebody’s bathroom. Balamanja is the village where the rich own lodges, each one the size of a full primary school. Interestingly, according to the neighbouring villagers, the lodges are rarely used. Balamanja villagers, co-owners of Lake Malawi, can hardly access their lake because it has virtually been fenced off. Balamanja looks like an apartheid city with the rich living a 21st century California beach style life and the poor living a typically Haitian life with no running water; and in mud huts with no iron roofing. Mats, reed mats, grass mats, mats the Malawisaurus generation used, still protect the doorways of Balamanjians in 2013.
“This place stinks!”Jean-Philippe said as we drove back to see Mwala Woyera.
“Why?”
“How can people live in such splendour without caring about their poor neighbours? Where is Malawian ubuntu?”
“Umunthu, not ubuntu,” I corrected Jean-Philippe.
“Whatever you call it. Where is corporate social responsibility?”
“Malawians are not communists! Here it is the capitalist or rule of the jungle. Those who have enjoy themselves while the poor die out. It is called natural selection,” I answered nonchalantly.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“We should ask your president to come here with her Mudzi Transformation Trust dollars and cows. These people need them now. By the way does she even know how the Balamanjians live?”
“Welcome to Balamanja, Sheikh Jean-Philippe,” I laughed.
